


the art of scavengers

by skeletonannie



Series: another apple into pieces [3]
Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, First time?, also, meet the parents, ok, single parent, theyre just rly cute, tiny enraged gay, useless asshole vampire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 14:10:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2775905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeletonannie/pseuds/skeletonannie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>hollstein;  carmilla meets papa hollis. also, snow forts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the art of scavengers

So.

Your dad will be here in like zero minutes. He insisted he come all the way to your dorm, and before you were excited, because, like, hey dad! Everything is terrible and I really want to hug you!  But now, it’s like, heeeey daaaad this is my roommate she died for a bit we kiss a lot and I might be sort of in love with her and she might love me back and lately all I can think about is how she’d taste arching into my mouth how the heck have _you_ been?  Not ideal.

            Also. It’s not like Carmilla _means_ to be a useless asshole vampire, but sometimes she is just such a _useless asshole vampire_. Like today.  Your dad will be here in actually less than thirty minutes and she’s still asleep.  In your bed. As a cat.  Not just any cat, either, but a friggin’ _panther._  

            You fling her leather pants at her stupid panther face and she just…lets it happen. No reaction whatsoever. And maybe it would be cute any other time, but today it _really_ isn’t.

            “Carmilla!” but she just covers her face with a _massive_ paw, flicking her tail.  With a hearty groan, you reach over and tug her ear, but apparently gargantuan jungle cats enjoy this, because—get this—she starts _purring_.  “Carm, I swear to everything, if you do not wake up and turn back into a human I am lighting all of your Harry Potter books on fire.” 

            This gets you a yellow eye peering at you suspiciously from under her paw, but otherwise, nothing. 

            “Fine! Have a good break, _cupcake_.  I’m going to meet my dad in the parking lot, seeing as you have chosen a _fine_ time to be utterly and completely infuriating. And selfish.”  You grab your bags, hefting the duffel over your shoulder and trying to maneuver the wheeled suitcase without tripping yourself. Halfway to the door, you decide to turn back and snag a few cookies for the road.  Carmilla’s still a panther, you note.

            You have a bit of trouble with the doorknob, but you get it open eventually. But when you swing it open, smacking yourself in the knee, your dad is on the other side.

            “Hi, sweetie,” he opens his arms and you’re floundering with the cookies and bags and the fact that your roommate is still a _panther_ , but he pulls your face to his chest too fast for you to really do anything else.  “I missed you,” he mutters gruffly into your hair.

            “Hi dad, I missed you too,” and you did, so much.  He’s wearing the same old flannel shirts and dark blue jeans, worn and familiar, and you kind of sink into him and just sway in your doorway.

            A grumble comes from behind you, and your dad halfway lets you go, his arm around your shoulder.  “Oh, is this your roommate, Laura?”  And when you turn around, there’s Carmilla, in a dirty DOA t-shirt and a pair of black panties, strolling out of the bathroom with a toothbrush in her mouth.

            You send her a startled glare and she smirks around the toothpaste before extending a hand to your dad.  “Mr Hollis, it is an absolute _delight_ ,” she croons, somehow managing to look elegant and refined while brushing her teeth in her underpants.

            “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you too.  You must be Carmilla,” and she glances at you with such a smug look you have to bite your cheek, a flush spreading up your neck.

            “So you’ve heard about me,” and she’s still not wearing any pants.

            Your dad ruffles your hair with a grin.  “Oh, little Laura’s told me a few things,” he looks at her with a raised eyebrow, then, “say, how about some pants, Carmilla?”

 /

            So.

            You’re going home.  After all the weird and terrifying things that have happened over the semester, you’re more than ready to get back to somewhere familiar.  You and your dad have a lot of tv shows to catch up on, and pizza to order, and he said he had a few new krav maga techniques to show you.

            Oh, also: Carmilla’s with you.  Yeah. When your dad asked her what her plans were for break she shrugged, said, “I usually stay here; my family’s been gone a long time.”  And you wanted to roll your eyes because she sounded so apathetic, but then you remembered—oh yeah. Her mom and brother literallyjust died. Her human family has been dead for like centuries. Carmilla’s kind of an orphan, and it’s the holidays, and she’s so _young_.

            So now you’re all packed up in your dad’s car, driving down the highway. You guess it’s a supernatural senses thing, but Carmilla seems to know how uncomfortable driving makes you, and she’s been valiantly holding a conversation on bricklaying with your dad for the past forty-five minutes so she can keep her hand on your shoulder as she leans in from the back seat.  You keep reaching up to grab at her fingers, every time you round a corner too fast, and she just quietly squeezes back and continues talking about—oh, now it’s tractor maintenance. 

            You don’t know; maybe Carmilla genuinely enjoys bricklaying and tractor maintenance. Maybe that’s her thing. But you have a feeling it’s not, and—yeah.  There’s a warm feeling in your chest and throat, and for once it’s not from mounting panic, and you think that maybe this is healing, those are sutures stitching over old wounds and Carmilla brushes her thumb across your shoulder.

  /         

            So.

            “Welcome home, kiddo,” your dad mumbles into your hair.  Everything looks the same, and you’re wildly relieved at that.

            Carmilla lingers on the porch, looking kind of uncomfortable and nervous. Her duffel is hanging from her shoulder and she keeps glancing from the doorway to your dad with a little frown that twinges something in your chest.

            Nudging her hip with yours, you lean in.  “What’s wrong, Carm?”

            She lets out a deep breath and turns to you, her bangs falling into her eyes. “You have to invite me in,” she mutters, and her eyes look so dark and she's biting her lip like--is she _embarrassed?_  

            Before you can say anything, your dad is grabbing Carmilla’s duffel and ushering her inside with a quick “Come on in, Carmilla, it’s cold out there” and suddenly Carmilla is _in your house_. This is huge.  Is this huge?  You think this is huge, because like you thought she was dead and she still is technically but she’s also lovely and soft and yours.  And now she’s in your house.  Oh my god, she’s going to be in your _room._ She’s going to see your _bed_.  Oh my god.

            Carmilla must hear your traitorous heartbeat, because she gives you a look over her shoulder, and you swear she’s swinging her hips like that on purpose, and that _so_ isn’t helping you stop thinking about your bed, and Carmilla on it, and those leather pants are _so stupid._

            Your dad carries Carmilla’s duffel into the guest room, dropping it on the floor next to the dresser.  “This is you,” he tells her, shoving his hands into his pockets.  “I’m going to get dinner started; I’ll let you girls get settled.” The door closes gently behind him.

            “So. Um, this is my house.” You don’t really know what you’re supposed to do right now but you know what you _want_ to do, so you clear your throat and reach for her hand.

            “It’s a very nice house,” she tugs you into her with a smirk, “Very cozy. Quaint, even.” Her hands are on your hips and you feel your breath sticking in your throat.  She does, too, if her raised eyebrow is anything to go by.

            “I mean, it’s no Austrian royalty mansion, but,” you shrug, and you try very hard to _stop_ staring at her mouth, but like, as if.

            “I like it,” she mumbles into your mouth and then you feel _all_ of her, her thighs, her hips, her chest as she presses into you with a heady sigh.

            “Good, I’m—I’m glad you like it,” and her teeth graze your lips before she nips you with a quick “Please stop talking right now.”  So you do.

 /

So.  
This certainly isn’t how you wanted to break the news to your dad that you and your useless asshole roommate are together, but what can you do.

            You’re still trying to button up your blouse while Carmilla sits primly next to you on the bed, her hair ruffled.  Your dad is silently glaring at her, but she calmly meets his gaze with a surprisingly confident expression.  The last button finally sorted, you huff and run a hand through your hair, trying to think of something to say that isn’t “whoopsie doo sorry dad so this is a thing.”

            Carmilla nudges you while your dad is still glaring heavily. “What,” you hiss, but she just stares pointedly at your crotch, and like—this is _so_ not the time.  You give her a look and she rolls her eyes.  Motioning with her hands, she mimes…something…about ropes?  You have no idea, and you also do not have the patience for it, so you smack her hands with a glare.

            A throat clears loudly in front of you, and then you _die_ because your dad says, “I think what Carmilla’s trying to tell you, Laura, is that your pants are undone.” You’re pretty sure you could actually perish. Your dad is looking at you with a weird mixture of embarrassment and disappointment, and you think even his moustache looks tense.  Carmilla’s shaking she’s laughing so hard.

            “Oh! Well—wow, okay, um,” you button your pants before hiding behind your hands.  A deep breath, then, “So dad, this definitely isn’t how I wanted to tell you, but like—here we are! So I’m just gonna—”  You motion to Carmilla, who grabs your flailing hand and holds it on her thigh.  Your dad’s eyes narrow. Carmilla's still laughing.  “So, um.  This is Carmilla Karnstein!  She is very pretty and _very_ smart and I really like her and—um.  I’m sorry. I had a whole cute thing planned and it totally involved a skit but—I mean, now obviously that’s ruined, so—yeah.” Carmilla squeezes your hand gently, so you add, “She makes me happy, dad.” 

            Your dad listens to this disaster speech with his arms crossed, and does not relax even a little by the end.  The silence is kind of super heavy and you’re about to start rambling more, but then Carmilla traces your palm with her fingers and says, “Mr Hollis, I respect your daughter and I’d—oh, I don’t know, let’s say: jump into a deadly pit of light to keep her safe.  She makes me very happy, as well, and I have learned to cherish things that make me better. And Laura makes me better, sir.” Her shoulders are very squared and steady, but you feel her hand tremble a bit. 

            Your dad nods very slowly, sizing Carmilla up.  Uncrossing his arms, he sighs and says, “I knew you were listening when I gave you the talk on college girls,” before ruffling your hair and pulling you into a hug.  “By the way, nice work kiddo.”

            You wheeze a shaky laugh into his chest.  “Shut up.  Thanks dad.”

            Carmilla’s still holding your hand when your dad reaches for hers. “Better not break her heart, Karnstein. She knows krav maga.” Carmilla laughs—and it’s so lovely and young, you think you fall a bit more—and shakes his hand.

 /

“That was—I’m never gonna stop blushing.”

            Carmilla snorts and runs her hand through your hair.  “It could have been worse, cupcake.” Her voice is low and scratchy; you think she’s falling asleep.

            “How could that have been worse?  How?”

            You can _sense_ her eyebrow raise. “Well, do you want a verbal or visual description?” and her hand traces down your neck to your collarbone. Your spine shudders and like—you literally _just_ got caught with a topless girl on top of you in your childhood home by _your father_ , and this is so not the time, but—ugh.

            “Nope, no I get it it’s fine,” you stumble out, pushing yourself up onto your elbow. Her hand cups the back of your neck, her thumb tracing the knolls of your spine.

            “What are the chances your dad won’t come up to check on us?” she murmurs and you try to look stern but her eyes are doing the thing and your heart is _hammering_ and you can feel your pulse low in your belly so you glance quickly at the door before whispering “fuck it” and kissing her hard enough to hurt.

/

So.  

            You didn't exactly envision your holiday break being spent in a weird tense argument with your useless asshole vampire, but.  Carmilla and your father had got into a heated debate over--get this--the best James Bond, and your father is an adamant Timothy Dalton fan.  Carmilla thought this was absurd and continued to argue for actually two hours, when you were  _supposed_ to go for a walk through the snow.  And usually this wouldn't be a big deal, but you had gone out when she was napping and spent three hours digging a snow fort that you were going to lie in and stare at the stars.  But  _instead_ , that asshole spent the whole evening arguing about  _James friggin' Bond_.  Yeah.  Instead of spending time with you, she wasted valuable kissing hours  _arguing about James Bond_.

            So now, you're sitting on the floor of your room on your computer, trying to not think about how much of an idiot she can be.  She's in the guest room.  She had come in here yesterday to 'apologise,' but all she said was "I'm sorry I didn't give in to your father's weak-minded thinking and thus ruined whatever quaint little winter walk you had planned," so you shouted at her and she threw her hands up and left.  

            It's just--you don't even know  _why_ you're so upset.  Like, yeah, granted, her apology was half-assed at best, but--she didn't know you spent so long digging a snow fort, and she didn't know you had a cute little evening planned, and she didn't know that you fucking hate James Bond.  But it's too late now, because if you back down in a stand off like this with her, she will be smug and insufferable.  

            It's been two days.

            There's a gentle knock on your door, and then she's pushing it open with her toe.  Her bangs are in her eyes and you can't really see her mouth because it's hidden behind your thick maroon scarf; her parka is buttoned.  There are two cups in her mittened hands.  She slowly walks over and kneels next to you, tentatively holding out a mug of cocoa.  You huff a sigh but roll your eyes and take it anyway.  You see her eyes crinkle and you can't help but grin, try to hide it behind your mug.  She laughs a bit then criss-crosses her legs, leans forward on her elbows. 

           "Hey."

           "Hey."

           She smiles again, soft and kind of shy.  "Sorry I was--I'm sorry," and then she's looking at you earnestly and her jaw is soft and she looks so small, so you take her cocoa and put it next to yours on the carpet, and then you kiss her quietly.

/

So.

            Places you did not think you would have sex with your useless asshole vampire for the first time: snow fort.  

            "I saw the fort you made; your dad told me you spent all afternoon on it," she says quietly against your mouth, and she's wearing entirely too many layers.  You slip your hands into her parka and she shudders, before trying again.  "Your dad --"

            "Please stop talking about my father," you murmur into her neck, your hands tracing her ribs, and you feel her laugh--in her ribs and her throat and against your body.

            "Buttercup, just--" and she turns her head into your kiss, nipping your lip.  "Listen, please," and she looks gentle and excited and so young, so you stop kissing her, pull your hands away from her ribs.  "Thank you.  So, your dad said you spent all afternoon on it and he said you collected a bunch of blankets and a thermos of cocoa, and  _I_ thought, 'wow.  That is a lot of prep work.  Cupcake must've had some big plans.'  So.  Want to lay in a snow fort with me?"  Her hair is messy under her toque and she's biting her lip and there's chocolate in the corner of her mouth.

             "Really?" but you're already getting up, finding your toque and mittens, throwing on a coat.

             It's like,  _really_ cold.  But you take a lot of blankets, and a new thermos of cocoa, and your dad gives you the kerosene lantern, so you should be okay.  The sky is clear, crisp and jewelled, and Carmilla kind of doesn't look real in the moonlight, an always-already gone sort of dream.  It's stunning.  Her profile is almost glowing against the dark sky next to you, and she's wrapped a blanket around the two of you, given you your maroon scarf back.  You're kind of afraid to say anything right now, because she looks peaceful and very alive, so you kiss her shoulder and press your forehead into her neck.

             And it should be too cold to even consider  _anything,_ but then her fingers are tracing your throat again and her skin is so warm and you can't stop yourself from pressing your mouth to the column of her throat.  Her fingers still for a moment and it takes you a minute to realise that--yes.  She totally stopped breathing.  You chuckle into her neck and she shudders.

            And then her hands are in your hair, pulling you to her, and her mouth is warm and tastes like chocolate, and you feel her moan into your mouth and--wow.  Your hands quickly undo her jacket and then you're pressing into her spine, tracing her shoulder blades, and her thigh is between your legs and your pulse is hammering low in your belly. She's a shadow above you, haloed by this beautiful moonshine; your heart stutters and then she's kissing hotly down your neck, pulling at your sweater and nipping your collarbone, and, like, you're in a  _snow fort._ You moan into her shoulder when she shifts her thigh, and you can feel her smirk into your chest.  Her fingers are tracing your hip.  This is no time for games.

            You twist your fingers through her hair and pull, catching her moan in your mouth and biting her lip.  You try to roll over but she just laughs and gives you a sardonic look, says, "Cutie, I'm 334 years old, do you really think you're going to top me right now?"  So you buck your hips up and smile triumphantly when she a) loses her balance and b) bites her lip to quieten her moan.

             Her eyes darken and you're pretty sure she just took that as a challenge (of  _course_ she did) because suddenly her tongue is against your teeth and her hand is--oh. _F_ _inally_.  You whimper into her mouth and she sucks your tongue, bites your lip, pulls back and whispers, "Can George Glass do  _this_?" with a very pointed thrust.  

             You come, laughing so hard you think you might pass out, because this is a  _weird_ mixture of things happening, and she's laughing too, so joyfully you feel it in your own chest.  "You're such a  _useless asshole,_ " you wheeze out, kissing her neck.  "I never should have made you watch that movie."

             Carmilla kisses you slowly, then, removing her hand from your pants and tugging the blanket tighter around you.  "So," she looks at you very seriously.  "Am I to understand that George Glass  _can't_ do that?"  And you're laughing again, with your hands trailing down her sides, and you're laughing as you unbutton her pants, and you're still laughing as she comes, quietly, lovely, above you.  

 

                      

           

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i like them a lot you guys. the "George Glass" line is from bridesmaids (god bless). 
> 
> also i am working on uploading that playlist to 8tracks, so stay tuned!
> 
> thanks friends


End file.
